


When You Say Nothing at All

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e05 His Father's Son, M/M, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: Facing increasing pressure to assert himself as King, Arthur doesn’t allow himself the luxury of being able to speak his mind; not that he actually knows what to say. Until he does. (A Five Times + fic – alternately titled: Four Times that Arthur Couldn’t Find the Words, and One Time he Nearly Did + a bonus Where He Didn’t Need Them at All.)





	When You Say Nothing at All

**Author's Note:**

> There were so many moments – seen or unseen – in this episode where I’d have loved to have gotten inside Arthur’s head and this was my chance to do that! Note: Borrows scenes/dialogue directly from canon. Goes AU at the end though!
> 
> Ridiculous amounts of thanks and gratitude and appreciation to Daroh: you are the reason this got written at all. I owe you so much! And thanks to the mods for this fest. Such a brilliant idea and I can’t wait to do it again!

 

_When the words are elusive…_

 

“Would you hold still!” Arthur snapped; it came out sharper than he’d intended – he was irritated, not angry – but Merlin just sniffed petulantly in response.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Merlin replied, tugging his arm away from Arthur even as Arthur tried to fit the strapping of the bracer into its fastening.

Arthur tugged back, refusing to acknowledge how silly it was they were essentially fighting over Merlin’s arm. “I think I know how to buckle on a bracer,” Arthur shot back. “I’ve only been putting on armor, oh…” –he paused to emphasize the depth of his sarcasm and his gaze flicked up to Merlin’s–“I don’t know? _All_ my life.”

Merlin’s eyes rolled, although the impertinence in the expression was somewhat belied by the amusement that played around the corners of his mouth. “And when was the last time you put bracers on by yourself, your Majesty?”

Ignoring that, Arthur continued to fumble with the strap. Why was he having such a damned hard time with it?

Merlin tolerated it – not patiently if his sighs were any indication – for about another two minutes before he tried to pull his arm back again. “Seriously, Arthur, I can get it.”

Once again, Arthur’s grip tightened and he pressed Merlin’s forearm hard against his chest so he could get better access to his wrist. The move made Merlin jerk forward a half step, his shoulder pressing into Arthur’s. “Just… let me do this,” Arthur said softly; ignoring the hint of pleading in his own voice that sent a peculiar warmth up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears.

That quieted Merlin down where nothing else had, and he stopped fighting to get his arm back. He sighed again, but it was a quiet, accepting sound.

Arthur couldn’t bring himself to look away from the task at hand. The air around him felt too heavy with things. A thousand words seemed to chase themselves around in his head, some warring with others over which needed to reach his tongue the fastest. He clenched his teeth against letting any escape.

He remembered, suddenly, the last time he’d helped Merlin don armor. In Ealdor, readying to face a warlord, armed with only a handful of villagers, his three closest friends and the reckless hope of a rather insane plan. It seemed so, so long ago now. The arm he held now was firmer, stronger, and its skin carried more scars. They both seemed like such different people, and yet the moment felt charged with an inexplicable something, the same as it had back then.

Finally, the damned buckle worked loose from where it had gotten twisted, the leather strap sliding smoothly against metal, and he pulled it firm but not too tight. “There,” he said, tone still low and hoarser than he wanted it to be. “That’s got it.” He gave Merlin’s wrist one last rather inane pat before letting go.

Merlin let it lower slowly and he was silent as he lifted the other, the second bracer offered up in his fingers. “If you would?”

“Right,” Arthur agreed. The second bracer went on in moments, straps slotting into place with ease. He half expected a quip from Merlin about the first one being defective, or about him being capable of learning after all… but Merlin stayed strangely quiet.

“Now the chain, I assume?” Merlin asked, though Arthur knew the question was rhetorical. Merlin was right earlier: he likely did know the process even better than Arthur these days.

Arthur nodded anyway. He turned to the table where the chainmail lay in a neat pile of gleaming silver links. They’d discovered the set in Arthur’s own room, shoved in the bottom of a trunk, when they’d been unable to find anything of suitable size in the armory. It _hadn’t_ been Arthur’s first official armor – that had come when he was just a lad barely able to lift a regular sword – but it _had_ been the first set he’d worn into battle. He’d held on to it, long after he’d been fitted for newer, for sentimental reasons, though he’d denied it when Merlin asked.

The well-worn, rust-stained, padded gambeson had been a perfect fit for Merlin.

Arthur lifted the hauberk by the shoulders and turned to find Merlin standing with his arms already held up, waiting patiently. For some reason, that gave Arthur pause and he’d been about to say something, maybe to remind Merlin of the weight of the links, but the words fled. He dropped his gaze to his hands instead and clumsily attempted to ruck up the chain so that he could find the opening at the bottom, to lift over Merlin’s head.

He silently cursed his fumbling, wishing he could understand the strange undercurrents that seemed to be ebbing and flowing around the pair of them. Did Merlin feel it too, he wondered? Or was he the only tongue-tied idiot between the pair of them?

Shaking his head to physically shed the troubling thoughts away – and ignoring the small furrow between Merlin’s brows at the gesture – Arthur found the bottom edge of the hauberk and got it hooked in his fingers. “Ready?” he asked, rather absurdly for how Merlin was already stood waiting.

Merlin humored him though. “Yeah.”

It felt so odd to reach up with the weighty mail and to wait while Merlin worked his hands into the sleeves, and then to slowly ease it down so it didn’t pinch at Merlin’s neck. Despite his efforts to avoid thinking about… well, anything other than the minutia of the task at hand, Arthur wondered if Merlin felt this same sense of gravitas whenever he girded Arthur for combat.

Not that they expected Merlin to actually _see_ combat. That thought finally loosened Arthur’s tongue. “You remember the plan, right?” he asked, even as he adjusted the collar of the chainmail so it lay flat.

Merlin gave a brief nod, careful not to knock into Arthur’s hands while he worked. “Yes. Of course.”

“Let’s go over it again.”

“Arthur,” Merlin started to protest, “I already–”

Stepping back a pace, Arthur held up a hand. “Just… humor me, would you?”

Again, when he’d have expected argument or grumbling, Merlin just bobbed his head in acknowledgement. His cooperation niggled irritatingly at the back of Arthur’s mind – like an unreachable itch. “Right. Okay.” But instead of going on, Merlin pointed to the table. “The coif too?”

It took Arthur a moment to catch on, following the line of Merlin’s directing arm and extended finger to see a smaller piece of chain armor still laid out on the tabletop. “Oh, right. Yes. You should be wearing all of it. We need Caerleon’s men to think you’re an actual Knight.”

Merlin chuckled, genuine amusement dancing around his eyes. “Well, hopefully they’ll not get close enough to get a good look at me.” He held his arms out, looking down at himself with another soft laugh.

Arthur didn’t echo the laugh though, nor feel the humor of it. Instead, a sharp pang seemed to hook deep in his belly. “That is the plan,” he said, once again sharp and curt. “And you’re not to do anything stupid, is that clear?” Damn, why was he being like this? He picked up the coif and handed it over to Merlin hastily and then spun on a heel and stalked away. “You can put that on. I’ll get your cloak.”

Behind him, he heard Merlin blow out a breath, though still he didn’t argue. His compliance was starting to get damned unnerving.

“The plan, Merlin,” Arthur reminded him, less for needing to hear it, than needing something to cut through the tense silence.

“Right, the plan.” There was a tone in Merlin’s voice – a layer of some emotion - that Arthur couldn’t identify: frustration, maybe? Or perhaps irritation? But whatever the feeling, he kept it carefully in check as he recited their strategy for dealing with the trespassing Caerleon troops.

“I’m to fall behind the patrol and dismount, like my horse has come up lame. Then when you and the rest are out of sight beyond the hills, I’m to turn back, leading my horse away from you. At some point, we’re assuming Caerleon’s men are going to give chase, thinking they’ve got an easy target. Hang on.”

Merlin paused and Arthur could hear the jangle of chain links. Arthur, meanwhile, stood at the open doors of his wardrobe and came to realize he’d been standing there while Merlin talked, doing nothing more than clenching the red fabric of a Camelot cloak tight in his fingers.

Apparently oblivious – and obviously haven gotten the coif settled – Merlin continued with his recitation. “Right, so, once Caerleon’s men are chasing me, I’m to lead them to the woods and to the ravine. Where you and the others will be waiting, ready to spring the trap.” He made a strange noise, a bit like a grunt. “You certainly better be waiting.”

“I’ll be there,” Arthur said, too fast and too earnest. “ _We’ll_ be there, don’t worry,” he hurried to correct. And damn, again he sounded so harsh, almost angry. To soften it slightly, he offered, “We may not be visible, else that would ruin the whole point of the ambush, but you’ll have to just trust that we’ll be there.”

And Merlin’s immediate reply of, “I do,” was both reassuring and unnerving.

Arthur wanted to say something – “Good, I’m glad,” or “I appreciate your faith in me” or something else that put into words the unsettled feeling tying his insides in knots. But apparently those knots were constricting his throat as well, because he could manage nothing more than a nod. And considering his back was to Merlin, that probably wasn’t very reassuring.

Actions, then. He dragged the cloak out and let it unfurl, pointedly not seeing the wrinkles left behind by his too-tight grip a few moments earlier. Drawing in a deep, steeling breath, he laid the cloak over his arm and finally turned back to Merlin.

Who was watching him, waiting, expression vaguely quizzical but also…knowing? Or maybe that wasn’t it. Arthur really couldn’t tell. When Arthur closed the distance between them Merlin looked down at the crimson fabric. “I can get that… uh. If you want me to.”

Why did it sound like he was offering Arthur an escape?

Never one to refuse a challenge – even one of his own making – and stubborn despite himself, Arthur shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.” Merlin did this for him all the time, had done it earlier in the day in fact, when he’d readied Arthur for the war council where they’d decided on the plan – to use Merlin as bait – for dealing with the interloping Caerleon troops.

How difficult could it be?

Of course, as soon as he lifted his arms to drape the fabric over Merlin’s shoulders, Arthur realized his folly. He should’ve let Merlin do this. This was too close… too intimate. His heart lurched in his chest and his breath grew short. He hoped his face wasn’t as flush as it felt, and he found he couldn’t lift his gaze away from Merlin’s chin.

It took him three tries to get the tie wrapped around the fastener at the neck, and then he didn’t loop it correctly and the damn thing nearly slipped from Merlin’s shoulders when he let go. His hands shot out and caught the edges before it slipped away completely, but that had the added effect of yanking Merlin even closer to him.

To his credit, Merlin just stared over Arthur’s shoulder, his patience at Arthur’s awkward efforts seemingly endless. Though, perhaps the sharp planes of his cheekbones were slightly pink?

“There we are,” Arthur said in a rush once he successfully managed to tie off the cloak correctly. “All done.” He brushed at some non-existent lint on Merlin’s shoulder, realized what he was doing and then hastily stepped back a few strides, letting out a relieved breath as he did so.

A breath that stuttered out to a rasping wheeze when he finally got a look at Merlin.

Oh hell. That was Merlin in armor… _his_ armor. Merlin wearing the bold Camelot red cloak with its flashing gold Pendragon sigil. Merlin, in shining chain and polish steel.

When someone on the council had first proposed the idea of a ruse to draw Caerleon’s men into an ambush and someone else (who had it been? Agravaine perhaps?) had suggested Merlin for the role of bait, Arthur had found the notion of disguising Merlin as a Knight rather humorous.

What a fool he’d been. It wasn’t amusing _at all_. Merlin looked noble, fierce and every bit a true Knight of Camelot.

Not that Arthur could _ever_ admit such a thing. So, when Merlin posed with his fists braced on his hips and his chest puffed up and asked, “Well, do I look the part of a Knight?” Arthur’s only option was to scoff noisily.

“Don’t be silly, Merlin.”

He felt like an ass as soon as the words were spoken, but Merlin seemed to realize there’d been no true heat behind them.

“Well, you’d better hope you’re wrong, else this plan of yours isn’t going to work now, is it?”

“Fine,” Arthur allowed. “Perhaps it’s not terrible.” He waved a hand vaguely at Merlin. “I mean, as long as they don’t get too close.”

Merlin just rolled his eyes. “Oh, so you can admit I look the part of a knight from a distance at least.”

A knock interrupted before Arthur could come up with a suitable – and not overly revealing – answer. Thank god! “Come,” Arthur called out, loudly.

The door swung open and Leon stepped in. “The men are ready, Sire,” he reported. Then he glanced past Arthur to Merlin and a grin broke across his face. “Merlin, look at you.” He spent a long moment looking Merlin over, smile thinning to a considering but not displeased line. “I hadn’t expected–” he began and then seemed to realize how that could sound, and started again, “I hadn’t really known what to expect, but you make a rather convincing knight.”

“Thank you, Leon,” Merlin beamed, even as he shot a sideward glare at Arthur.

“Yes,” Arthur gritted out. “Thank you, Leon. You may go. Tell the men we’ll leave in a few minutes. Merlin and I will join you all in the courtyard.”

Leon couldn’t quite hide his quick, covert little glance between the two of them, but he just nodded. “Of course, Sire.” He drew the door closed behind him as he stepped out of the room.

“Well, we’d better be going then,” Merlin said, thankfully putting aside their previous… banter? Chatter? Whatever it had been.

“Right,” Arthur agreed. He took up his sword and slid it into place at his belt, then headed for the door, Merlin stepping into place on his heels. He got a hand on the latch, but before he swung it open, Arthur paused. “It’s… you…” he stuttered, choosing and discarding word after word. Finally, he managed a curt, “You’ll convince them.” And he yanked open the door and stepped into the corridor, and he knew without looking that Merlin was grinning as he followed dutifully after.

 

_Or the words put up a fight…_

 

“Arthur.”

“Not now, Merlin.” As soon as the words left his lips, Arthur regretted them. The expression that crossed Merlin’s face at his rejection only served to make him feel a hundredfold worse.

He couldn’t take it back, though, no matter that he wanted nothing more than to sit with Merlin by the fire and talk through the decision he had to make. Agravaine’s words echoed ominously in his head like some kind of doomsayer’s proclamation.

_Show strength…_

Seeking the council of his manservant wasn’t the action of a strong King.

His Uncle was right; he needed to show strength. For the sake of his people, his kingdom… he needed to be as strong a king as his father had been.

Elbows on his knees, hands hanging lax between them, Arthur gazed into the crackling, flickering campfire. He watched, hardly seeing as the hewn logs and gathered branches burned down, yellow-orange tongues of flame giving way to cherry red embers, and finally to white-hot coals.

All the while he could hear Merlin moving around him, puttering quietly.

Deep down, a part of him even knew that Merlin didn’t truly have any tasks that necessitated his presence, that he was likely making work just for the excuse to stay close, to be available should Arthur change his mind.

And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to.

But that’s not what his father would’ve done.

His father would’ve been decisive. He’d have known the right choice immediately and not even needed the night to think it over. Yet, looking back on some of his father’s decisions, Arthur could recall plenty of times that he’d challenged Uther for being too harsh or too uncaring of his people.

He remembered feeling frustration when Uther seemed to put his own interests above the needs of Camelot, and arguing with his father when he thought he’d gone too far. Not that those arguments had ever done much to sway Uther’s decisions.

Though, even if Uther had made the wrong choice now and again, what had been more important was that Uther had been decisive and that had made him a strong, respected king. He never backed down once his mind was made up. Perhaps Agravaine was right, and he needed to follow the examples his father had set.

And yet…

There was something to be said for compassion and cooperation. He knew Caerleon wouldn’t sign a treaty. Not under duress. Perhaps not even if they met across a table for negotiations as equals, but they would never be able to discover the answer to that if he had Caerleon killed. He couldn’t help but wonder if striving for peace through a show of mercy was the stronger choice.

Two lines of thought warred in his mind, and Arthur knew that if given voice one would sound like his father and the other like Merlin.

A soft, whistling sort of rumble drew Arthur from his heady contemplation, and he glanced around a moment puzzled, until he discovered the sound issued from Merlin. He was seated on the ground, back against a log, on the opposite side of the fire from Arthur. There was still a bracer and polishing cloth hanging limply in his hands, but his body was slumped forward and his chin rested against his chest. He’d obviously dozed off mid-task.

Arthur looked about again, this time focusing on his surroundings and realized that the fire he’d been gazing at in contemplation had burned down nearly to glowing coals and embers. His men had clearly long-since bedded down around the handful of other campfires, their cloaks doubling as blankets. The scatter of shapeless, black-red lumps amidst the trees looked strangely sinister in the barely-there glow cast by dying firelight.

He had no idea how long he’d been sitting, lost in his own head. Nor how long Merlin had sat quietly beside him.

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly.

Merlin’s eyelids twitched and his nose wrinkled as he snuffled out a faint, restless snore.

Arthur raised his voice just a fraction. “Merlin, wake up.”

Merlin startled awake, glancing around in befuddlement before he caught sight of Arthur. From the way Merlin’s face changed – expression shifting from one of relief to something more akin to sadness – he’d obviously remembered the circumstances of their current positions.

“You should get some sleep,” Arthur told him, feeling a warmth in his chest that didn’t come from the fire.

“I think I _was_ sleeping,” Merlin answered, too sleep-muddled to sound remotely defiant.

Arthur nodded, the barest hint of a smile pushing at his cheeks. “Well, you were. But you’ll complain all day tomorrow if you stay like that.” He pointed where their bedrolls were laid out side-by-side further into the trees and near the edge of the small area of cleared ground. “Go on. Get some rest.”

“What about you?” Merlin asked, gathering up cleaning cloth and the armor. He struggled to his feet, looking like he might topple at any moment. Arthur turned to watch him stumble his way to the edge of the trees. Just to ensure he made it, of course.

“Arthur?” Merlin called out softly, once he’d unrolled his blanket and settled down onto the thin pallet. “You should sleep.”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m fine, Merlin. I’ll sleep when I’m ready.”

Merlin looked for a moment like he wanted to protest, but then seemed to think better of it. He sighed and nestled his shoulders into the pallet and tucked his blanket under his chin. “At least get the fire built up again. You’ll catch a chill.” His admonishment cut off with a noisy yawn.

“Merlin,” Arthur chided, but he found himself already reaching toward the small pile of logs and branches stacked near the stone circle. He placed a few pieces of fuel onto the waning fire, arranging them strategically, and then said, “There, happy now?” There was no answer forthcoming and when he turned back to look behind him, Merlin had already fallen back to sleep.

Shaking his head fondly, Arthur whispered, “Good night, Merlin.”

Unfortunately, that brief distraction wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts from turning back toward the matter at hand. And now he didn’t even have the option to talk things through with Merlin.

He lost himself to the warring of his mind and the decision he still needed to make.

“Arthur?”

Some hours later, Merlin’s voice broke into his long-night’s reverie. He’d been vaguely aware of the sun rising, and though he’d not slept and the fire had burned out, he didn’t feel tired or cold. He felt numb.

But he’d made his decision at least.

Soft footfalls told him Merlin approached. “Arthur, here.”

He accepted the cup of water Merlin handed to him. “Thank you.”

“You must be cold.” Merlin knelt by the fire that had long gone out. He started to stack more branches over the ashes. “Have you not slept at all?”

“Been thinking.”

“About what Agravaine said?” Merlin asked cautiously, though he couldn’t quite mask the judgement in his tone.

Arthur just nodded.

“So, what are you going to do?”

He’d thought long and hard about his choice. He’d imagined dozens of conversations between himself and his father, and an equal amount between himself and Merlin. No matter which direction he began to lean, there was always his Uncle’s caution and the need to live up to his father’s expectations overriding all. “My father was a great king, but I don't have his wisdom or his conviction. I can only follow his example and do what he would've done.”

Merlin frowned at that, looking for a moment like he might disagree. “You're going to draw up this treaty?” he asked, instead.

Arthur looked away from him, staring straight into the distance as he bobbed his head again. “I have to show my strength. Show that I'm worthy of my father's name.”

“Caerleon won't sign it.” Merlin told him, frowning and urgent.

Arthur answered with a glare.

Merlin almost glared right back. “You know that?” It wasn’t really a question.

And Arthur knew it was the truth. But he’d made up his mind… only a weak man, a weak king would change it now. Mood growing sour, he replied bitingly quick and firm, “Caerleon brought this upon himself.”

“Arthur,” Merlin tried a different tone; a plea instead of defiance. “You've always shown mercy in battle. You've never sought to humiliate your enemy in this way. This isn't like you. This isn't who you are.”

The truth of Merlin’s words stung even more for how much Arthur wanted to listen to them. He could feel his resolve already starting to crumble. He did the only thing he could to keep it shored up, fixing Merlin with a sharper glare and cutting him off. “You have no idea what it is to make these decisions. Decisions that will shape the future of this land –”

“Arthur.”

It was cruel, petty even, but Arthur spoke over him, “–so, please...stick to what you do know.” He stood abruptly without another word, leaving Merlin kneeling, and stalked away. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look back at Merlin, knowing the disappointment that must be writ across his face, louder than any words he could speak.

 

_They take one step forward…_

 

Arthur closed the door behind him, pulling it shut gently until he heard it latch, and then couldn’t seem to remember how to let go of the handle.

He stared at the weathered wood, not seeing it; unable to see anything but Gwen’s face: the tears lining her eyes but going stubbornly unfallen, and the proud tilt of her chin, despite the way her lower lip trembled. Her parting words echoed sharply in Arthur’s ears, ringing like a bell over and over.

“ _Don’t let anyone tell you what to do,”_ she’d said. He wasn’t sure what stung more: the accusation inherent in those words… or that he had let someone do exactly that.

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling heat prickle the skin around them as he tried to block out the image of her, but it only seared brighter into his mind. With a wordless growl, he shoved himself away from her door and set out into the night.

Striding recklessly through the streets of his city, Arthur almost desperately hoped another of his guards might try to stop him again, or perhaps some brigand or drunken fool might accost him. He wanted nothing more than to lash out at some target, whether they were deserving of it or not.

Luckily – for everyone else - he made it back to the castle unchallenged.

If any of his guards had wanted to say anything to the cloaked figure stalking through the hallways of the castle, they thought better of it once they got a look at him. More than one man-at-arms stepped aside or ducked into an alcove when he passed.

He felt vaguely cheated that he reached his room unmolested, and that his self-doubt and anger and heartache had no outlet. Arthur entered his room, closed the door to his chamber behind him with a loud ‘slam’ and then slumped wearily against it.

“Arthur?”

Jerking upright, Arthur turned sharply to see Merlin standing near the window. Far from the fireplace -the only source of light in the room - he was little more than a dark shadow limned only by color-tinted moonlight that shown in through the stained glass.

“Merlin?”

A rush of profound relief surged through him at seeing Merlin there, at knowing that Merlin had sensed something was wrong and had waited despite his orders.

And just as quickly he remembered the reason he’d gone to see Gwen, the reason he’d ended their relationship. It was as he’d told Merlin earlier: the kingdom was _his_ responsibility to bear alone; he couldn’t afford the luxury of distractions or connections, unless they served the greater good of Camelot. A relationship with a servant… no matter who it was or how it might be defined, didn’t meet that criteria.

His relief was quickly subsumed by a white-hot rage.

Arthur threw back the hood of his cloak and glared viciously across the room. “I thought I told you not to be here when I returned.”

Merlin made a dismissive noise. “Well, I didn’t know when you’d be returning, did I?”

“Get out,” Arthur hissed. He could feel his hands starting to shake, and he was almost glad when they fell to his side and he remembered that he’d not bothered to bring his sword.

Stubborn as ever, Merlin stood his ground and had the gall to shake his head. “You were coming back from seeing Gwen. I know that.” He gestured to the window. “I saw where you snuck back in.” Even more daringly – especially as Arthur had an idea just how ugly the scowl on his face must be – Merlin took a step closer. “And, I think I know why you went to see her, and why you’re like this.” He waved a hand that took in not only Arthur’s physical being, but his dark mood as well.

“Merlin…” Arthur cautioned, his control at the breaking point.

Still, Merlin couldn’t see the danger for what it was. Or maybe he did, and just chose to ignore it – which, knowing Merlin, was probably closer to the truth. That knowledge tamped down the rage the barest amount: that Merlin would risk Arthur at his worst, just to try to be there for him.

“Arthur, that’s not you. Not after how long and how hard you fought to get here. To give that up now is not being true to yourself. You can’t push everyone away when you need them.”

His words were too close to Gwen’s, and they tipped the scales in the wrong direction.

“Dammit, Merlin. I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I can’t. Why can’t you understand that?”

The explosive words rocked Merlin slightly, his eyes going wide and his throat working around a gulping swallow, but he rebounded quickly and his lips thinned and his brow furrowed. Where he’d been cowed to silence earlier that day by a similar pronouncement, this time Merlin bristled right back.

“But you’re wrong, Arthur. And you’re being foolish. It is not a weakness to need people. Trusting your friends and the people who care about you and who love you makes you a stronger king than you realize!”

Fighting an urge to cross the room and take Merlin by the shoulders and throttle him, Arthur slammed a fist back into the door instead. “Merlin, my Father–”

“Your Father had you, and his council, and plenty of other people he could’ve sought advice from. Just because he chose to keep everyone at arm’s length and not let anyone close, not even you–”

“That’s enough!”

Unbelievably, Merlin kept right on going. “That doesn’t mean you should do the same. You’re a good, King, Arthur. You’re wise and strong and you don’t need to be the same man as your father. You can be better–”

“I said, that’s enough.” Arthur didn’t shout; this time the words were cold… quiet. Even a foolish man would’ve recognized the danger for what it was. And Merlin was not foolish.

Still – foolishly or bravely – Merlin pressed on. “Arthur, you can’t–”

He’d heard enough though. Arthur crossed the room in a rush, catching at Merlin’s coat and scarf, bunching them in a fist and gripping tight. “I. Said. Enough.” He punctuated each word with a rough shake.

And Merlin flinched, but held his ground. Despite the way the cloth twisted and pinched at his neck, and despite the tremble that Arthur could feel beneath the knuckles that were jammed against Merlin’s collarbone, and the pulse he could see thrumming wildly at Merlin’s throat, he still met Arthur’s eyes, so damn bravely. He was braced, ready for whatever was to come, and willing to take it… anything, just to get Arthur to hear him.

All the fight went out of Arthur then, the tension leaving his body on a long, ragged sigh. His fingers loosened, but he kept his hold of Merlin’s coat and dropped his forehead to Merlin’s shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Merlin,” he admitted, feeling the words catch against a lump in his throat, and they scraped out roughly. “I fear I’ve done the wrong thing… First with Caerleon, and now with Gwen.”

“You’ll make it right, Arthur,” Merlin told him, whispering fervently. “You’ll figure it out and your friends will be here to help you.”

There was a soft, tentative touch at the back of Arthur’s head; Merlin’s fingers pressed softly at the base of his skull.

“I’m tired, Merlin,” he said, ignoring the thousand other things that needed and wanted to be said.

“You should get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Arthur huffed out a bitterly amused noise that wasn’t really a laugh. “You can say that again. We go to war tomorrow.”

The fingers against his nape pressed firmer for just a moment. “I know, Arthur.”

He let Merlin push him away then, let him untangle the knot of his fist that still twined in Merlin’s scarf and coat. He stood silent while Merlin removed the long blue cloak and his belt, and he didn’t protest when Merlin pushed him to sit on his bed so he could tug off Arthur’s boots and his socks. He complied wordlessly when Merlin urged him to lift his arms so he could wrest off his tunic.

He stood again, long enough for Merlin to fold the bedcovers over and to arrange his pillows, then he sat down again at Merlin’s gentle push to his shoulder. “You should sleep, Arthur,” Merlin finally said, breaking the oddly peaceable silence that had fallen.

Wearily, Arthur nodded and lay back against the pillows, settling in while Merlin tucked the covers around him. He watched as Merlin moved from the bed to put his things away, setting his boots next to the wardrobe and hanging the cloak. The sound of him tending the fire to bank the coals for the night and his footfalls pattering the stone floor were a familiar comfort.

Despite how exhausted he felt, Arthur didn’t know if he could sleep once those sounds stopped. The idea of being alone, once Merlin left, of having nothing but the relentless company of his own thoughts in the quiet of his room, disturbed him greatly.

Finished with his tidying, Merlin came to stand over Arthur. He lowered his head deferentially. “Will there be anything else, my Lord?”

It was wildly inappropriate, and nothing a strong king would do, but the lateness of the hour, the softness of the room that Merlin had created with the fire's gentled light, made him shrug off what had become a relentless sense of himself as king. He was so weary of being strong. He flipped the bedcovers on the far side of the bed, and patted the bare sheet. “C’mon.”

Of all the things he’d said this night, _that_ seemed to be the one that left Merlin speechless. He stared at Arthur like he’d just grown a second head.

Glad that the dark of the room would hide the way his face must’ve flushed, Arthur just patted the bed again. “It’s late. Just get in; get some sleep.”

Merlin finally found his tongue, though few words to use it on, “Arthur, I…”

Arthur dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing fingertips into his temple before letting his hand fall back into the sheets. “Look,” he said softly, gazing up at the canopy now, instead of Merlin. “I don’t… it’s just, you’re right. You’re right and I don’t want to push everyone away.”

It was almost enough. Merlin stepped towards the bed, then paused at the side of it. His face seemed to play through an entire conversation’s worth of expressions before settling on a small, puzzled and unsure smile. “I thought you said you were prepared to face all manner of horrors…” he let Arthur’s earlier words trail off, ending them with flick of his hand towards the empty side of Arthur’s bed.

Arthur grinned ruefully at his earlier words. “Looks like you won’t be the only brave one here this night.” He wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but something in it seemed to make Merlin’s decision for him. He gave a curt little nod.

It took Merlin a few more minutes to ready for bed, taking off his boots and scarf and belt and piling them neatly on the floor, and when he crawled onto the mattress his movements were slow… tentative. He settled in as close to the edge as he could and turned onto his side, facing away from Arthur.

Arthur didn’t sigh, but he did hit Merlin with a pillow.

“Hey!” Merlin rolled over and grabbed the pillow, clutching it to his chest, mock-affronted. But he seemed to relax – somewhat – after that, and he pulled the heavy covers over himself and tucked the stolen pillow under his head.

It was enough.

They could deal with everything else in the morning.

“Good night, Merlin.”

“Night, Arthur.”

 

_… And then two steps back_

 

With a wordless gesture, Queen Annis signaled her men to release Arthur.

“And your terms?”

For the first time since he’d entered the tent and come face-to-face with the wife of the man he’d murdered, Arthur felt a small glimmer of hope that perhaps this might work out after all. “If my man wins, you must withdraw your army.”

Annis showed no reaction to that. “And if mine is the victor?”

He didn’t think of what his men would say, or how Agravaine would react, only told her what he knew to be right and fair. “Then half of all Camelot is yours.”

He waited while Annis stared at him, wondering what she was seeing on his face, if she thought he might be baiting her or trying to mislead her.

They were distracted by a commotion and one of her guards dragged in another figure. Arthur watched in disbelief and horror as Merlin was shoved unceremoniously to his knees.

What the _hell_ was Merlin doing here?

He looked up at Arthur, culpable and apologetic, but somehow still just that fraction defiant. “Sorry about this.”

“You know him?” Annis asked sharply, all her former suspicion returning to her tone.

Arthur scrambled for an answer. “He's my servant, he must've followed me here,” he explained, hoping honesty would serve him best. “I–I knew nothing about it.”

Honesty didn’t impress Annis. “Kill him.”

“Wait!” Arthur urged, almost before the order had left her lips. “Please. Let him go. He's just...”–he glanced down at Merlin, fear and anger fighting for supremacy in his breast– “a simpleminded fool.” And Merlin, damn him, had better have heard that for the threat it was!

He could only, desperately hope that Annis would be reasonable.

She eyed him, and it wasn’t a friendly expression. “That is _two_ favours you've asked of me this night, Arthur Pendragon.”

When she turned away from him dismissively, Arthur’s heart sunk, and when she settled back in her throne-like chair, Arthur was a moment away from throwing himself to his knees at her feet, to beg for Merlin’s life. He watched her gaze shift from him to Merlin and back, expression shrewd.

“Very well,” Annis said finally, breaking the strained silence. “You shall have your trial by combat.”

Relief washed through Arthur that she was agreeing to the combat, and had not immediately turned her attention to Merlin. He took that for a good sign.

Especially when she added, “Announce your champion by noon tomorrow.”

Arthur bowed his head in grateful acknowledgement. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

He didn’t even begrudge her the way she spat out her final words.

“And take your fool with you.”

Arthur bowed his head again and then grabbed at Merlin to drag him out of the tent as fast as possible. Once outside, he got Merlin to his feet, and the guards seemed content to let him keep hold of Merlin’s arms as they guided the pair of them – at sword point – out of the camp. Merlin started to utter something once, an apology of sorts, but Arthur just gave him a rough jostling. They didn’t need to have this conversation in front of Annis’ warriors.

When they reached the path and the guards stopped at the limits of their posts, Arthur released Merlin and kept going, anger and frustration propelling him forward. He could hear Merlin right on his heels, and to absolutely no surprise, it didn’t take long for Merlin to start talking.

“Simpleminded fool?”

Of course, Merlin would be more upset about _that_ than the fact that he’d come close to being executed. Arthur scowled and walked faster. “Oh, I was being kind, believe me. You almost got me killed in there.”

“Me?” Merlin shot back. “You seemed to be doing a pretty good job of that yourself.”

Arthur halted and spun around. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Why can you never just let me be?” It came out rather desperate, and wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He didn’t even know if he’d said it because he was lashing out, trying to cause pain, or because he genuinely didn’t understand the reason.

Merlin, naturally, had a ready answer. “I'm your friend! I was looking out for you.”

The way he said it, like it excused everything else, just frustrated Arthur all the more. He understood Merlin’s motivations far more deeply than he wanted to; it didn’t mean he knew how to feel about them or even how to respond to them though.

He took a breath that did nothing whatsoever to calm him. “I appreciate that, in your very confused way, you're only trying to help,” he conceded. “But, please, don't do it again.”

From the flash of hurt that crossed Merlin’s face, he’d taken Arthur’s words completely the wrong way. Arthur was never good at clarity when he was angry or afraid. Didn’t Merlin realize how close he’d come to dying tonight? If he’d stayed back at their camp, and hadn’t followed Arthur, his life never would’ve been put at risk.

“Fine,” Merlin bit out, “I won’t.” He pushed past Arthur, shouldering him out of the way as he continued tromping down the path back to the Camelot army camp.

Arthur threw up his hands and then laid them both over his face, groaning into his cupped palms. He thought about the way things had been just the night before: how easily he’d fallen asleep to Merlin’s soft breaths, and how comforting it had been to wake up in the middle of the night – dreams of battle and death plaguing him, disturbing his slumber - to find that he wasn’t alone.

Yet here they were again, at odds. And he had no clue how to fix things between them. Nor did he even know if he wanted to. At least with Merlin angry he was less likely to do stupid things like follow Arthur into enemy camps!

Still, he couldn’t let things go like this. Not tonight. Not when he already knew who was going to face Annis’ champion.

And wasn’t Merlin going to love that answer?

He got moving again, jogging down the path for a minute or two, though it didn’t take him all that long to catch Merlin up. Apparently, his anger-fueled march had slowed once he was out of Arthur’s line of sight.

His first “Merlin” was ignored, so he put a bit more of a growl on the second. “Merlin!” (Not too loud though, as they were closing in on the Camelot troops, and the last thing he needed was his army wakened by the sounds of their king having a row with his manservant).

Merlin rocked to a halt and crossed his arms over his chest, but didn’t turn around.

“This is ridiculous, Merlin.”

“Oh, you’ll get no argument from me,” Merlin said petulantly. “You sneaking out of camp in the middle of the night to go and make deals with the enemy is quite ridiculous.”

Trying desperately to keep his temper in check – which wasn’t easy as Merlin knew exactly how to goad him – Arthur ignored that. “No, this attitude of yours. That’s what’s ridiculous. Look, I know you’re not happy about what I did. But, I had to do it. You must understand that. This may have not been the act of strength my father would’ve made, or the show of force that Agravaine wanted, but it’s what’s best for my kingdom and my people.”

Merlin’s shoulders slumped and he turned slowly to face Arthur. “I do understand that, Arthur. I’m not angry about that.”

“Then what are you angry about?”

Giving an eyeroll that was quite over-the-top, Merlin waved a hand at him. “I’m angry because you’re angry. I mean, I just did the same as you… except I was doing it to keep you safe.”

As ridiculous as it sounded, the sincerity in Merlin’s words tugged at something deep within Arthur’s chest. It was as if Merlin believed his being there could’ve somehow prevented Annis from killing him if she’d wanted to.

Merlin was always saying things like that; promising to protect him and keep him safe. It was absurd and impossible, except that it made something within Arthur feel so…strange.

It made Arthur want to say things like, “Don’t you realize you could’ve died back there?” and “Don’t you know what that would’ve done to me?”

It made him want to tell Merlin that he couldn’t fathom facing the coming combat without knowing Merlin was there watching and waiting for him to return.

It made him want to say all of that, and more…

He said none of it, retreating to the safe and familiar. “I’m the King, Merlin. I don’t have to justify my actions, whereas you do.”

Merlin sputtered and spread his hands wildly. “Oh, so that’s how it is? I see.” He glowered and clamped his arms across his chest once again and then turned back to stomp through the brush. Only, without his arms free, he managed to stumble sideward into a bush. He squawked and flailed about rather wildly, trying to disentangle himself.

Arthur couldn’t help it; he laughed. It felt freeing and oddly lighthearted, putting the whole of this ridiculous argument behind them. He watched Merlin struggle a moment longer and then walked over and helped him get untangled from the grappling brush. Once Merlin was upright and freed, he brushed a few leaves out of Merlin’s hair. “Come on, let’s get back to camp.”

Merlin sniffed irritably, but even he couldn’t hold onto his ire after that, and he bumped his shoulder companionably against Arthur’s as they made their way back.

 

_Until he nearly gets it right._

 

In the cool, dim confines of his campaign tent, Arthur held still while Merlin worked at the strap of his steel pauldron. They were both tense; he could feel it in the tight draw across his own shoulders, and in the way that Merlin’s fingers fumbled uncharacteristically at the fastenings.

The whole while that Merlin had worked to ready Arthur, helping him don gambeson, chain and plate, he’d sensed the tension around them grow and expand, like the very space was girding itself as well. He’d stood, mostly silent, while Merlin worked, also maintaining that same heady silence. He merely followed Merlin’s unspoken instructions with ease – a touch here, and slight pull on an arm there, a tap on the neck that told him to duck his head – and been quietly compliant.

Between the weight of the armor and the weight of that silence… it started to become almost more than he could bear. Finally, it seemed to overcome them both, and Arthur sucked in a breath and winced as Merlin yanked the strap a bit too far. “Not too tight, Merlin,” he cautioned a little breathlessly, “you don't want to kill me before I've even started.”

He heard Merlin’s nervous chuckle, and his soft, “Sorry.” Something about that soft laugh, and the way Merlin’s hands gentled and became competent once more, allowed a bit of that overwhelming tension to bleed off. Arthur at least felt like he could breathe again (or that could’ve just been Merlin correcting the tightness of the strap).

He felt Merlin step back away when the task was finally done, and he considered a thought that had been occupying him for some time. He pulled off his leather gauntlet, drawing off his Mother’s ring that he normally wore on his forefinger, and turned to Merlin.

“If this day should prove to be my last, give this to Guinevere.”

Arthur held out the ring and immediately Merlin lifted a hand to receive it. He pressed it into Merlin’s palm, and wasn’t surprised to see the look that Merlin gave him.

Merlin understood the gesture, what it meant.

Almost unnecessarily he added, “Tell her I'm sorry.” Dropping his gaze to his hands, Arthur pulled his glove back on.

Again, clearly understanding, Merlin just said, “Of course.”

He fumbled with the leather gauntlet, taking far too long to pull it back on. In his periphery, he could see Merlin fidgeting, stepping closer. He almost knew what Merlin was going to say before he spoke the actual words.

“Arthur, do you really think this is worth the risk? You're king now. Camelot needs _you_.” Merlin’s voice nearly cracked. “Alive.”

Arthur looked up, unsurprised by the depth of emotion on Merlin’s face. He saw so much there, and for once he knew _Merlin_ was the one not saying things.

For once, Arthur said them. “I don't know what will happen,” he admitted, honestly. “But for the first time since I became king, I know in my heart I've made the right decision.”

He didn’t have to tell Merlin that he was part of the reason that Arthur felt that surety. His support and his stubborn defiance had all brought Arthur to this decision. One that he felt proud to have made. He smiled his reassurance.

Merlin almost returned the smile, though it never quite reached his eyes. And then he turned away and ducked his head, gaze falling to the ground and unable to look Arthur in the eye when he said, “Well, whatever happens out there...erm...” His throat worked around a swallow.

Arthur had thought he’d be able to handle this moment, when it came… this potential goodbye; he thought he’d finally worked past the barriers that kept him from speaking from his heart – at least to Merlin. But faced with it, faced with saying the last words he might ever get to say to Merlin, those barriers closed around him again, stolid and unbreachable. Feeling a coward, he retreated to their default, and hoped like hell Merlin would see it for what it was. “You're not about to start crying on me, are you?” he accused, hating the way his voice shook as he said it.

Merlin, bless him, gave a wavery chuckle and lifted his chin defiantly. The eyes that met Arthur’s were red-rimmed but dry and he’d started to grin. “No,” Merlin retorted, full of his usual sass. “Just, er, good luck.”

The grin grew wider, and the eyes that met Arthur’s shone with something… inexplicable. Something Arthur didn’t know if he even deserved.

Arthur took hold of Merlin’s forearm, clasping it tight. He felt Merlin’s fingers wrap firmly around his wrist in return. “Thank you, old friend.”

This was enough, he told himself, this would _have_ to be enough.

Let it be enough.

It didn’t feel like enough.

There was so much more that should’ve been said, but they’d run out of time. Still, he gripped Merlin’s arm hard and stared into those guileless eyes that gazed back at him with such… such…

Arthur didn’t let go even when Agravaine entered the tent, interrupting the moment.

He saw, sidelong, Agravaine pause slightly in the entrance and glance between them, knew there was probably something suspicious, perhaps even unsavory in the way he looked at his king and manservant standing so close, arms clasped like brothers-at-arms.

Still, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to let go, or to step away.

Agravaine moved closer. “It is time, my lord,” he said, just a hair too impatient.

Finally, as Merlin’s eyes finally looked away from his (shooting to Agravaine with no little irritation), Arthur let Merlin’s arm drop. As soon as he let go, Merlin stepped back, again putting a more appropriate, deferential distance between them.

“Very well.”

And yet, even parted, Arthur stood there a too long moment, loathe to see this come to an end. Long enough that clearly Agravaine grew discomfited again. “Is all in readiness,” he asked, puzzled.

Arthur turned not to Agravaine, but to Merlin. He posed the question to him. “Merlin?”

For once he didn’t care about Agravaine’s censure or opinions; let him see Arthur wait for that final approbation from his mere manservant… from his _friend_.

Arthur stilled for Merlin’s inspection.

Merlin looked him over, his eyes shining once again. Arthur felt truly like a King under the power of that gaze. “Ready,” Merlin confirmed, proudly.

Arthur nodded and turned away, picking up his sword from the command table. He drew it from the scabbard, stared down the length of it, studying it for a moment.

This was it. All that was going to be said had been said.

He turned, didn’t let himself look at Merlin for a final time – that would’ve been too much. “Right, then.” He strode purposefully out of the tent.

 

_Bonus Scene: Couldn’t have said it better_

 

The knock at Arthur’s door as he lay in bed came as no surprise, and he called out an expectant, “Come.”

The person who entered _did_ surprise him though. “Merlin?”

Carrying a pitcher of water, Merlin stepped uncharacteristically sheepishly into the room. “Uh, yes, Sire.” He hoisted the pitcher, like that was some kind of explanation.

“I don’t…” Arthur began, sitting up. He slid a hand under the pillow, feeling for the prickly stems and leaves of the bouquet he’d been keeping hidden. “I don’t understand?”

“Um, Gwen, uh… asked me to come. To take her place.” Merlin nearly winced as he said it. Clearly, he expected Arthur to lash out, to use Merlin as a conduit for his anger.

Instead, to his surprise, Arthur felt a sort of quiet resignation. He’d picked the haphazard bouquet on a rather vain hope, but he couldn’t say he blamed Gwen for her decision. She’d put up with too much, and he’d done poorly by her again and again.

What did it say about his relationship with her that he’d so easily set it aside at Agravaine’s mere suggestion?

He looked across the room where Merlin still nervously puttered with the pitcher, setting it in the basin and adjusting the comb and hand towel next to it.

And what did it say about his relationship with Merlin that he’d never quite gone far enough to give it up?

The strangest whim came over Arthur then, and for once Arthur decided not to ignore the impulse, or wall it behind the veritable fortress and battlements that usually enclosed his emotions. He pulled the flowers out from under the pillow, got up off the bed and walked over to present them to Merlin. “Here.”

Merlin turned away from his task, blinked down at the proffered gift and then accepted them hesitantly, looking quite puzzled. “Uh, for Gwen?” he asked, holding the desultory little bouquet somewhat at arm’s length.

That puzzlement only grew when Arthur grinned and shook his head. “No, for you.”

“Uh,” Merlin glanced around, shifty-eyed for a moment. “Thanks?” Still clearly confused, he pulled the limp, wilting flowers towards his nose and took a sniff, then looked up at Arthur like he wasn’t sure what was expected of him next. “Um, what for?”

Arthur’s widening grin only seemed to alarm Merlin all the more. “For not giving up when I tried to push you away.”

Still, Merlin shook his head. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Words hadn’t ever been Arthur’s friend, and no matter how he tried to make them cooperate or shape them into what he needed, he never seemed to get it right. He spoke too harshly or couldn’t express what he needed or resorted to humor when he was feeling anything but amused.

 _Actions_ , though. Those had always served Arthur well.

“Does this explain it?” he asked softly and before Merlin could say anything else, he leaned in to capture Merlin’s mouth in a kiss.

Merlin froze against him at first, mouth going still and unyielding, and Arthur could feel the cool whisper of Merlin’s indrawn gasp of shock as it gusted past his own parted lips. Before he could pull away though – call this the mistake it was and apologize – the lips pressed against his softened, became pliant and giving.

Merlin kissed him back.

He placed a hand on Merlin’s cheek, and the other around his hip, drawing him closer, deepening the kiss. Merlin’s lips parted beneath his, his tongue flicking daringly at Arthur’s as he curled one arm around Arthur’s back and clenched the other in his tunic over a shoulder.

They kissed until they were both nearly breathless, until Merlin finally drew his mouth far enough to ask, “Arthur, I don’t… what is this? I…” He sounded confused and aroused and like he hated himself for interrupting enough to ask.

Arthur shushed him. “Shhh, don’t…please. I’ll only ruin it if I try to explain. Please…” He drew back, far enough to look Merlin in the eye. Wanting Merlin to see the sincerity in his. “Only, tell me this is okay. That you know…”

“I do, yeah,” Merlin nodded fervently, eagerly. His gaze was hot, his eyes so dark. “It’s okay. I know.”

Of course, Arthur couldn’t seem to stop himself then. “It’s just, I never say what I mean, and I go for a laugh when I mean something else and–”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupted with a soft chuckle, before any more inanities could come tumbling from Arthur’s lips. His wolfish grin was ridiculous: irascible and wanting both. “You talk too much.”

Merlin shushed _him_ then, doing so rather demonstratively with a kiss that had Arthur’s eyes going crossed, before he squeezed them shut entirely.

Merlin’s arms came around him tighter, clutching desperately, the hand in his collar nearly tearing his tunic, and Arthur could feel the tickle of the flowers against the back of his neck, since Merlin seemed to have forgotten he was holding the damn things in his effort to get even closer.

Their bodies pressed together, hips slotting into place and Arthur felt Merlin hard against him, even as he rubbed his own cock against the point of Merlin’s hip.

That made Merlin groan low in his throat, and Arthur liked the sound of it. He rutted against him more, rocking their hips, getting frustrated though, at the lack of purchase. To aid that, he pushed Merlin back against the dresser roughly, perhaps a little harder than he meant to, if the clunk of stoneware and the little trickling sound that followed were any indication. They’d toppled the pitcher in its basin.

“Oh damn,” Merlin gave a guilty little giggle, but then he also began to turn like he actually wanted to pause to clean it up; Arthur wasn’t letting him away that easy.

He spun them around again, walked them across to the other side of the doorway, putting Merlin’s back to the wardrobe. It had a wall behind it, and the worst they could do was knock some of his clothing about in their frantic scrambling.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Arthur growled.

Merlin’s ear tips went red at the not-quite-threat implicit in his tone. The flush chased all the way down his throat, and Arthur had to tear away that damn scarf to see just how far it went. Merlin went utterly pliant once Arthur started to follow that path of rosy pink skin with his lips and teeth.

It became a challenge, then, to get to as much skin as they could, to lick and to taste and touch, all the while trying to keep their hips close and friction on both of their cocks.

In the end, it was Merlin who thought to get a hand between them (throwing those pitiful flowers to the floor), to work at Arthur’s trouser laces, and slip his fingers against skin. His knuckles brushed Arthur’s belly, and Arthur’s entire stomach quivered and went taut while his cock throbbed.

Arthur dropped his head against the arc of Merlin’s throat where it curved into his shoulder, moaning wordlessly into bared skin as Merlin’s fingers circled his cock. The angle was terrible, and his trousers were too tight to allow much movement, but he hitched his hips with every short, jerking tug that Merlin managed and it seemed in no time at all he was there… coming hard, nearly doubling over with the pain-pleasure of it.

“Merlin,” he gasped, clutching at whatever parts of Merlin he could reach, and grateful that Merlin’s arms came around him to hold him up.

Merlin soothed him with soft kisses into his hair and the thin skin behind his ear. “Shhh, I’ve got you.”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle noiselessly at that. “You do,” he agreed fervently. “You do.” He managed a bit more control of himself, fighting against the urge just to drag them both to the floor so he could go utterly lax and spent in Merlin’s arms… but, Merlin’s cock was still heavy against his thigh.

He cupped it, pressing it through Merlin’s trousers, learning the length of it, the shape. He latched his mouth onto Merlin’s clavicle at the same time, too tempted by that so-rarely-seen skin.

“Arthur, oh… yes…” Merlin began to babble, letting out gasps and whimpers and achingly lovely sounds all mingled with breathy moans of Arthur’s name.

Then the words and sounds became little more than a high, repetitive ululation, once Arthur got his hand beneath the waist of Merlin’s pants. He explored a moment, relearning Merlin’s cock with the new knowledge of how soft the skin felt beneath his calloused fingertips and how slick the tip got when he dragged the pad of his thumb over it.

“Yes,” he encouraged hoarsely when Merlin began to rock his hips in a rhythm that matched Arthur’s clumsy strokes. “Yeah, Merlin… _Mer_ lin…”

And Arthur nearly got hard again, when it was Merlin’s name on his lips that seemed to send Merlin over the edge; he came with a strangled cry, pulsing hot and wet over Arthur’s fingers.

The way his panting whined into Arthur’s ear, the sheer sensuality of it, was going to have Arthur back to full mast in no time. But damned if they were doing this standing again.

“C’mon,” he said, trying to tug an understandably wobbly Merlin towards the bed.

“Arthur, wait.”

And for a moment Arthur froze, feeling anxiety start to form in the pit of his gut. “Merlin,” he said, voice going just a bit high. “Don’t make me come up with another excuse to get you in my bed again.” He said it with a laugh he wasn’t sure he felt.

“No,” Merlin hurried to assure him, touching Arthur on the edge of his mouth with two fingers, and smiling softly. “No,” he gestured over his shoulder with a thumb, “it’s just the basin… we should fix that, we can probably use that water to clean up–”

Arthur growled and ducked his shoulder, catching Merlin about the waist before hoisting him up over his shoulder. He dropped him quite unceremoniously on to the bed. “That can wait.”

Merlin just shrugged, “Your room. Your mess.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur climbed over him, and flopped down at Merlin’s side in the bed. He draped the messy covers over the both of them. “Although,” he said, considering the sticky coldness congealing in his trousers, “maybe we should get up. At least we should get undressed, I mean–”

“Arthur?” Merlin muttered before Arthur could really get going, and he rolled onto his side and pressed the whole of his body against Arthur’s.

“Yeah?” Arthur replied, already a bit distracted, and felt more than saw Merlin’s grin where he’d pressed his mouth against the point of Arthur’s shoulder.

“Shut up.”

And there was nothing else to say.

**Author's Note:**

> To those who know me and/or my writing... yes, the title comes from a Meatloaf song. Yes, I'm predictable. :D


End file.
